


Who wants to live forever

by SwordSoup



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Whump, Crowley needs a hug, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Kidnapping, M/M, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-12 12:59:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19229611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwordSoup/pseuds/SwordSoup
Summary: Back when it was still only a few weeks after their Apocawasn’t, everything was for the most part, calm.No demons stalking anybody throughout the city streets, no angels flying down from the heavens to strike anyone down with their silly white wings flapping.But then, that calm broke.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I just watched all of Good Omens and I’m currently working my way through the book, and I am absolutely obsessed! 
> 
> I haven’t seen many lengthy fics about Crowley and Aziraphale like this, so I wanted to write it. Get ready for a lot of hurt and a lot of comfort.

Back when it was still only a few weeks after their Apocawasn’t, everything was for the most part, calm.

No demons stalking anybody throughout the city streets, no angels flying down from the heavens to strike anyone down with their silly white wings flapping.

But then, that calm broke.

Not because of demons - no, and not because of angels either. They’d given Crowley and Aziraphale a letter each, after a month of waiting, telling them that they were to remain on earth, where they would be left alone. It seemed like an uneasy peace treaty — the angry slurs they’d added in calling him a “faggot” or other such things made him think they didn’t _really_ want peace. He didn’t love like a gay man, he was a  _demon,_ he loved like a  _demon._

Even if it was a blatant lie to say Crowley didn’t love Aziraphale to some extent, Crowley will be blessed before he admits that. He knows Aziraphale couldn’t love him back, and he’s not willing to embarrass himself. It’s simply not his style. 

Aziraphale’s letter hadn’t been too much better — but still — his wasn’t quite as insulting. Either way, it was written as if for a child, capitalized letters and patronizing tones and all of it. Each note had been tossed into the bin the night after they’d been sent, with Crowley setting it aflame when Aziraphale had left, just for good measure.

But alas, their careful peace was doomed to be shattered, just as the world was doomed to end someday, even if they’d delayed it.

Their rather annoying, peace-shattering day of no good started off as any other peaceful day. Crowley was sleeping restlessly on Aziraphales couch after a night of heavy drinking and a bit more awkward silence than usual. Aziraphale was in the study, teacup in his hand as he scanned the latest copy of one of the children’s books Adam had sent him. He was waiting for Crowley to wake up, and wondering why the shop seemed ever so boring nowadays when the demon was gone, or asleep. He rarely slept at the shop anyways. He’d said something about Aziraphale’s couch being rubbish before he usually stalked away, into the night and his Bentley and some unknown address. 

Aziraphale was shaken from his reading when he heard a light groan call out to him from the living room. He bustles out, setting his teacup safely away from his books before arriving in front of Crowley, who was half off the couch, eyebrows pinched and muttering to himself softly. On a usual dream, Crowley would look like he was sauntering vaguely back upwards. Not everything could always be perfect, of course. 

“Dear?” Aziraphale shakes his shoulder gently. 

The man lets out a strange, confused noise, shifting backwards and tipping his head accidentally over the side of the armrest. “Crowley, come on.” He lets out a nervous sigh. Crowley didn’t get nightmares. “you need to wake up now. It's just a dream, 

Crowley’s eyes snap open, and for a moment, he sits there, almost as if suspended in time.

Then, he begins to crumble to ash, his body fading slowly as he scrabbles to gain purchase against the soft couch fabric.

(Now, Aziraphale recognizes that this was most certainly not the product of a nightmare.)

“No, no no no! Not again!” Crowley shouts, fear and bitter resentment alight in his voice as Aziraphale tries to grab his hand, a desperate attempt to keep him from sinking into dust.

“What in the hell is happening?” asks Aziraphale, as several things continue to happen.

“I’m being summoned,” cries Crowley, his torso and up being all that is left of the demon.

“But by who?” replies , who is becoming more and more panicked at the thought of his closest friend being sucked back into hell. If he was being honest with himself, Crowley was quite a bit more than a close friend, but he also knew that this was not the time to speculate on his silly, human  _crush_ when said man was dissolving. 

“I- I don’t kn-“

Crowley disappears with a small zap of light, leaving Aziraphale to fall backwards onto his behind on the ground, mouth agape slightly, and shock coursing through him.

—-

Now, Crowley’s demonic atoms were currently reforming in the middle of Spain. He was in a dark field, surrounded by dark trees and even closer to him — darkly hooded people — carrying darkened objects in their dark gloved  hands. They’re all dressed in black, he notes, his knees settling into the grass as he waits for them to demand what they need, a little bored by it all. The one in front of him takes a step forward, his breathing heavy and excited, hands clasped together under his ridiculous sleeves.

“You, demon Crowley,” he says in a chalky, grave voice. “We have summoned you, as is our right as the humans you serve.”

(That of course, is utter nonsense and bullshit. Demons aren’t meant to serve anyone, not even angels, or humans, and very rarely themselves. But even still, the fact that they know his name is enough to give him a little spark of fear. That was _never_ a good sign, and the reason he went by Anthony with the humans.) 

“Oh?” Crowley frowns, realizing his legs won’t move — and a few familiar markings pop into vision around him. This was starting to end up bad. How in the bloody heaven had a tiny group of humans created a summoning circle only angels are meant to use? “Well, What do you want? Hurry up, I’ve got an awful headache from all this re-locating.”

“We request nothing, foul beast,” snarls the man as his tone rapidly changes, holding out his hands to either side of him. Two other hooded people walk up to him, their cloaks hiding what they hold, till they set it in the man’s hands.

“Oh, do get on with it, would you? I’ve got quite a nice cup of wine back at home and you are zero fun, compared to  _that.”_

His sweet talk doesn’t stop them much to his chagrin, and he sees what the other two men  had given the first. Chains. The same type of chains, in fact, that had been used on the first demons to be slaughtered as they snuck off to earth or heaven. Heavenly steel. 

“Wait wait _wait,”_ he says with an annoyed tone. “Now let’s hold on a moment. Why don’t I just do you a favor, then let you off free without killing you for summoning me.”

“Silence!” Barks the man, walking forward with the chains. “You have no power over us in this circle!”

He looks down, then mutters an ancient curse. “Yep. binding. Binding circles, great, saw that already though.”

“Exactly, demon.” The man removes his hood to reveal a sharp grin and bald head, pale white skin showing how much time he must spend indoors. He looks almost sickly, inhuman, his veins popping out in long blue stringy lines.

Crowley can't fight back. He physically and absolutely cannot, his free will removed in the circle, because the heavenly circle was created by God herself, and it’s not in her nature to let a little bit of free settle where it’s wanted. His muscles are taught and drawn as the man says a word and he stiffens, unable to move a single muscle as an excruciatingly awful stillness laps over him. The chains are slapped onto his wrists, and begin to burn at his flesh, and he wishes he could grind his teeth as he waits for their next move.

Another man steps forward, holding a long, sharpened surgical needle.

(Now, Crowley knows exactly what they’re going to do.)

Another man takes large brown stakes and hammers the chains into the ground, forcing the immobile Crowley to bend over till his hair hits his knees. Submissive, _weak_. He can’t even protest what’s about to happen, as the unveiled man tears the cap from the bottle and fills the syringe, flicking bubbles away theatrically before turning to Crowley and saying another word.

To his dawning horror, he recognizes this one liquid, as he’s predestined to do, seeing as too much of an undiluted version will turn him to a melted mush. This one, thank someone, is diluted. This one, thank  _no one,_ is still bloody  _painful._

Another word is uttered. Crowley knows he can withstand this torture. It’s livable, if not horrifying. But — his wings being tortured? No. They cannot be opened - he can’t let this happen, he’s a _demon_ for satans sake, and Crowley wills them shut, but it is of no use. His golden eyes flit around the area, shamefully wishing that he could beg as his wings unfurl slowly, the luscious jet-black feathers blending in with the night. 

“Let us commence our work!” Shouts the man, holding the syringe up menacingly, and the cheers of the sheep behind him are deafening as he walks forward. 

“One.” A man scurries forward. “You know what to do. Finish your job.” The man nods, then goes behind Crowley, out of sight, but not even close to being out of mind as Crowley feels his wings being pried apart, shoved to the ground.

It already hurts, so so much, to feels the skin and muscles of his wings being pulled apart so painfully. But then, it becomes worse by tenfold, gony overtaking him and white glazing over his eyes as he feels stakes jam themselves into his wings.

Inside, he is screaming for help, for Aziraphale, in pain and in horror, but on the outside, he has a mild and helpless expression, his eyes rolling half into his skull in a desperate attempt to pull him to unconsciousness.

The grass against his legs down feel nearly as pleasant anymore, as blood starts to seep from his wrists and wings, pooling beneath him.

Just as the white of pain has disappeared, he sees the syringe being stuck in his arm, and the last thing he can do is stare as the hottest pain he’s felt since the fall overtakes him as the diluted holy water goes flushing through his veins.

He screams and screams and screams inside - and begs for Aziraphale to be with him. It feels as if he’s having a seizure, and he knows his body is shaking, even through the immobilizing spells. His veins feel like they are filled with fire and water and ice, the little tubes that usually pump his blood now crumbling until his limbs crumble to dust with them.

The people around him only laugh.

—-

One time, Aziraphale saw Crowley do something very strange. Now, you must be thinking, “all that Crowley does is strange, he’s a demon,” and to that, Aziraphale would counter indignantly: “this was extremely strange. Even for demons.”

Right now, Aziraphale is trying to recreate that phenomenon with limited success.

“Ohhh dear,” he says worriedly as he paces up and down the carpet, calling Crowley again. The man finally updated to having an actual cellphone, and Aziraphale doesn’t know whether that’s worth anything if he can’t figure out how to get this right.

“Hello, it’s Crowley, you know what to do so do it in style.”

Aziraphale tries again to go through the phone line, but again, fails.

The cup of tea in his hand is set down rather angrily, and he completely disregards the tiny splash that marks his book as he stares at the phone. “Bugger. These demons do make it so easy.”

Tutting, he goes to call him again.

—-

There’s not a single sensation Crowley can recognize, not a single emotion, other than pain. He hasn’t felt anything like this for thousands of years, and the inability to move feels like a slap in the face with a hug of holy water to rub it in. There is no reprieve, no breaks as the men continue to inject the holy water into his veins, his body straining for air he doesn’t need and for the man he so desperately wants to be with, instead of here.

One of them pulls a handful of his feathers out. “If we are to keep him, then we may as well make sure he can’t escape.”

His heart rate, however unnecessary, spikes. _Keep him?_ He’s an individual, he can’t be kept. He would rather pray to mercy from God then continue on with this - but all these thoughts come to an end as the syringe plunges into a new vein, his body littered with tiny and sluggishly bleeding holes. More and more of his feathers come out, and he feels hands pry at the bones so hard they snap.

More and more people stomp over his wings in their frenzy to take his beautiful, _beautiful_ feathers, but Crowley can’t even understand what’s happening.

Maybe he really will pray for the lord. He hasn’t done it - not since before the fall, but this is a new Hell, a new and improved hell that only humans and hell and angels together could design - because _by Satan_ they were more creative and horrible than anyone he’d ever met.

Suddenly, someone reaches into the pocket of his coat, and he violently flinches - in his mind, of course. The black leather jacket is covered in little holes and the arms inside them are littered with bruises. Still, they grab something out, probably his phone, and snarl when it starts to ring.

“Who the bloody hell is ringing a demon?” The people surrounding their leader shrug, and Crowley can’t help the tiny shriveled piece of hope that blooms within him.

“A- azaraphayle? Who the-“

There’s a large crack as the man’s skull hits the ground, something large, white and _angry_ falling on top of him after diving from the phone.

The other people gasp as Aziraphale unfurls his wings, but Crowley doesn’t register anything other than white hot.

“LEAVE!” He shouts in a booming voice, trying and hoping to make his voice as threatening is possible. “THIS DEMON IS UNDER MY PROTECTION, THE PROTECTION OF AZIRAPHALE, ANGEL OF HEAVEN, GUARDIAN OF THE EAST GATE!”

There’s a moment of silence, before they scurry away, shouting to run as Aziraphale runs to Crowley, his usual angelic shine dimmed and his wings folding back into himself.

“Oh, oh hell Crowley,” he croaks in horror as he makes a mad dash towards his friend, currently still frozen. His aura is almost completely dead, and surrounded by jagged and painful spikes of searing agony.

He starts to undo the circle, practiced hands dusting away digits and putting out candles, but just before he can finish, a man runs up behind Crowley, catching Aziraphale off guard.

In his hands he holds an uncorked pitcher, still nearly almost full.

Until, that is, it is not.

The contents go flying into Crowley’s back and wings, already burning bubbles and welts into his body as he is introduced to so much more pain that it shouldn’t even feasibly exist.

Aziraphale shouts his name, then picks up the pitcher and launches it into the man’s head, leaving him unconscious with a nasty welt - not nearly as much pain as he would’ve enjoyed giving him.

“Crowley - oh, oh my dear Crowley, love, you….” he wipes away the circle from the ground, still muttering reassurances, till Crowley falls limp against his chest, head resting against the crook of his shoulder, breath hitching as tears run down his usually emotionless face. His entire body trembles so painfully fast, and his hands clutch into Aziraphale’s jumper tightly as he takes one last wheeezing gasp.

And now - Crowley finally screams.

It’s earsplitting, painful for Crowley, painful to listen to, as he shakes horribly, blood flowing from his wrists as Aziraphale tugs the heavenly cuffs off him as gently as possible. His wings feel like they’re being folded into each other, every bone broken one by one, then fixed, then broken over and over. Over and over he’s flushed with his own blood as he is ripped open, folded inside and out, sewn up. His entire body is a sea of pain, and he’s been dragged under so many times that he succumbs to the darkness with one last final scream.

—-

The burns on his friends back are disgusting. They’re blackened and charred, leaking blood and looking as if they are slowly eating through his body. His skin is like ash, and his screams are like nails on chalkboard, both because of how loud and because of how sad the wails make Aziraphale.

When Crowley finally passes out, it’s a relief, and Aziraphale goes behind him and hastily removes the pegs holding his wings down, gagging and nearly vomiting as he sees the jagged bone and missing feathers shooting through the once beautiful wings, now dull and blood soaked.

All he can do for the moment is wait for a miracle.

So of course, he forces a miracle to take place, and after a moment he finds himself cradling Crowley’s limp body against his chest in Crowley's apartment, the man’s head digging into Aziraphales chest and blood beginning to soak through to his jumper. He realizes he’d better stay away from the summoning circle at the bookstore, and hopes to God that Crowley has first aid kits in his house.

He sets him down on his bed, atop the nest of twisted sheets Crowley seems to sleep in, then walks out to go find a first aid kit. After a minute of searching he finds a dust covered kit, the paint nearly scratched away, under the sink.

He grabs it and runs back to the bedroom, where Crowley has begun to stir, moaning softly. Aziraphale hadn’t noticed it before, but the man beneath him has cheeks stained with tears, and between gasps he whispers things, things too quiet for him to hear unless he leans in close.

The sight breaks his heart, the normally proud, funny, and kinder-than-he-thinks Crowley being reduced to gasps of pain. So, he promises to fix it.

First, he takes the jet black wing to his left in one hand. It’s snapped nearly down the middle of one of the bones, so he presses one hand down on Crowley’s shoulder, then snaps the two parts together.

Crowley lets out a gurgling scream and thrashes weakly against his friend, but Aziraphale just shushes him quietly and wipes away his own tears before they can fall on Crowley. “It’s ok,” he whispers as he mends the other break, to a chorus of sobs that erupt from Crowley. “You’re doing fine, you’re safe,” he replies to his name whispered in fear among gasps.

Finally, his wing bones are slotted back in place, and he starts to use his heavenly magic to mend the burns. It’s best to only use the magic for fatal wounds, and so he leaves the breaks to be bandaged and healed on their own later. The holy water very slowly starts to drip out of his wounds and evaporate on a now dirty towel he’d layered down earlier, which he quickly replaces.

Crowley’s eyes start to flicker open a moment after Aziraphale’s fingers brush over one of the needle marks on his neck, and his unfocused eyes flit around the room like a frightened deers.

His pupils are shrunken to tiny pinpricks of black, and the gold and white are bloodshot and horrible, his formerly gorgeous eyes now looking sucked of all moisture and emotion.

“Z- Zira?” He whispers as the angel in question starts to bandage over the sluggishly bleeding holes in his neck, dozens of them put together in little spots, and dozens of those little pods of marks all over his body.

“Yes, dear, it’s me,” he soothes as Crowley’s frame begins to shake, his hands drawing towards his eyes as he tries and fails to wipe off the tears on his face, shuddering sobs of pain cutting off into the choked whimpers of an embarrassed man. “It’s ok, Crowley. Let it out. You’re safe now.”

“ _Az….”_

His voice is anguished and shaky, and his eyes roll back in his head, his hands giving out and thudding back down onto the new towel he has down, spread near the halo of hair framing his face.

He takes off Crowley’s shirt and pants, quickly healing the heavenly burns on his wrists then bandaging the holes freckling against his legs and arms, puffy and red. “Oh, old friend,” he whispers as he looks back up at Crowley’s face, eyebrows still pinched together in pain. “What did they do…”

—-

Now, back in that tiny village, not far off from the field, there is a little know group. They’re all pathetic, not even a particularly interesting occult of people.

Only a few things make them interesting, such as their delicious pastries and their close proximity to Crowley and Aziraphale, being on earth, of course.

It makes it much more convenient for their clients. One of which, right at this moment, was lying in a heap in the field, a large gash from where a pitcher had hit him leaking the golden blood of an Angel.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the positive responses you’ve given me!! I’m so so happy to hear that all of you are enjoying it - I hope it continues to be fun!

It was a long night. Crowley had woken up several times, each a slightly more delirious then the last. At one point he’d said: “I despise selfies, Angel,” with tears in his eyes and a quivering bottom lip, much as if he was drunk, before he’d fallen back into a restless sleep.

Aziraphale, not one to be a fan of sleep anyways, stayed awake at his side all night. When he woke up, he’d give him a bit of water, or food, or listen to his disjointed grumbling, all while tending to his wings, which meant bandaging them tightly to his sides so he didn’t move them.

When the sun finally rose, Crowley woke up fully for the first time.

“A- Aziraphale?” He croaked, throat dry, eyebrows pinched together and very obviously annoyed at everything that had been happening to him. “Wha- where are you?”

At the moment, Aziraphale was grabbing a cold washcloth and some tea, but Crowley didn’t know that.

What Crowley suspected was that his salvation was nothing more than an elaborate dream, and he really was owned by crazy occultists now. Shutting his eyes in resignation, he sighed shakily, before flexing his hands and finding that he couldn’t produce a single drop of demonic magic.

So, he would be fighting with hand to hand combat then. It’s not exactly a great situation, seeing as his body feels like it’s one fire - but he’ll figure it out.

He drags himself forward, each movement like red hot pokers stabbing into each square inch of his flesh. Gritting his teeth, he slides his feet off the bed.

Oh, the manipulation magic must be wonderful. They’ve got his house down pat.

He settles his feet against the ground, then starts to stumble forward, one step, then another. His legs are painfully shaky, his wings adding more weight than needed.

Eventually, after a moments break and only two steps, one of his legs give out and he collapses. A loud crack resounds through the empty room and he flinches as his knees hit the ground.

Too dizzy to continue on, he slumps to the side, body falling limp and breathing slowing as he awaits his captors return. His hair is pressing into his cheek and tickling his nose, and he coughs, setting off a series of painful body spasms.

The door opens and to his surprise, a very worried looking Aziraphale appears. “Crowley? What happened?”

He stares for a moment, then shuts his eyes and replies softly: “please tell me you aren’t here… please tell me they didn’t get you…”

The not-Aziraphale’s hand appears on his back and his arm under his legs a moment later, and pulls him upwards, tugging him as gently as possible back on the bed while mumbling about how no, he was in his home, not captured still.

Still, tears slither down Crowley’s cheeks either way.

—-

Crowley’s face is flushed with fever, his eyes glazed and skin burning hot as Aziraphale picks him up to set him down again. When he sees his friends tears, he feels so, so helpless yet again.

“Love, don’t cry… you’re safe. You’re ok, just a bit sick is all.”

Crowley doesn’t seem to hear him, he’s so far gone in his fever that in the middle of an almost silent “sorry,” he falls back to sleep.

“Oh, and the tea has gone cold anyways,” he mutters, setting what was meant to be Crowley’s tea down on the table. “We need to get you cooled down…”

The rag he had in his hand has gotten significantly colder while waiting for its use, and he places the damp cloth against Crowley’s forehead. The holy water must be doing this, but he can’t just get rid of it. It’s going to need to run its course.

Sometimes, Aziraphale wishes he could hurt people without feeling so damn evil. He would have at least knocked out all the people in that circle if he hadn’t been in a hurry.

Whenever he’s with Crowley in general, whether on accident or on purpose, he gets a deep spark of happiness. It almost makes him feel glad to be near his friend, which he supposes is entirely normal, but not to the degree he experiences it.

It’s almost painful, like something is clutching at his heart, yet he can’t bring himself to stop. The pain might be from the longing for someone who doesn’t love him to love him, but maybe not. He’s not a poet, he’d always left that for his books. But - for Crowley, he feels as if he could write a thousand poems about him.

They might be rubbish, he’s not sure, he hasn’t written poetry in a long while, but he’d enjoy writing them anyways. 

When he’s around Crowley, his base emotion is happiness, or some variety. The man seems to immediately make him have an improved mood - as long as Crowley himself isn’t in a bad enough mood to bring Aziraphale’s down. When that is the case, he tries to fix it, and if he can’t - then some arguing won’t ruin their entire relationship

Being friends with the demon is strange - but nowadays he guesses him and Crowley aren’t really demons or angels much at all.

Sadly, he knows Crowley probably doesn’t really care about him as much as he cares. For years, if Aziraphale is admitting it, he’s loved Crowley. It isn’t hard to love the man, even if he was on the opposing side. He was funny, witty, ridiculous, of course, but also… he had a strange aura of hope, of happiness and kindness about him, and it drew Aziraphale in. It wasn’t corrupted like an angels, and the way he was made Aziraphale wonder why Crowley fell in the first place.

But anyways, Crowley was a demon, and Aziraphale was an angel. Even if they weren’t completely either of those, they still went to opposite sides, and he doubted Crowley would want to love him back.

Interestingly enough, at this exact moment, Crowley was having a wonderful fever dream about kissing Aziraphale - and quite enjoying it.

—-

Two days after the attack, an exchange takes place.

“Is it done? Do you have him?”

A man in a hood stands before his client, who’s currently nursing a bloody gash on his forehead. “W- well, I mean… we did, and he is significantly weakened but- But uhm-“

“You… _did?”_

His other, significantly less polite benefactor has arrived, it seems. “So where is he now?”

“Well- well that’s the problem,” the man stutters. “The angel Aziraphale came-“

“ _Aziraphale?”_ Requests the taller one. “White hair, owns a bookshop?” He turns to the shorter one. “He caused a lot of trouble for the upper management.”

“White hair, yes, he didn’t say enough for us to hear about a bookshop... he stole the demon away right before we could manage to turn him.”

“Then _find him!”_ Hisses the uglier one angrily, flexing his fists as if he is about to throttle the man. “Summon him again!”

“That’s just the problem, s- sir. They’ve relocated, we need your help in making a new circle.”

That shuts the two men up, and they turn to face the tree line, shooing the hooded men so they could speak for a moment. Neither of them seem happy to be near each other, but they soon come back over with their response.

The hideous one speaks in his gravelly voice. “Ok. We’ll come to you tomorrow, and do _not_ be late.”

—-

Crowley is sweating buckets, mumbling things that either break Aziraphale’s heart or make him endlessly confused. The moments of lucidity aren’t technically lucid, he’s just… awake.

And yes, now he has awoken, evidenced by the piercing yellow stare diving into Aziraphale’s soul at the moment. “Hello, Crowley.”

“‘Ello, Z,” he mumbles in response. “Why’d you make it so hot? It’s annoying.”

He sighs. “I didn’t, dear. You’ve got a fever, I’m afraid.”

This is his seventh time explaining this.

“Oh? Don’t feel like it. Just feel annoyed.”

Aziraphale just nods noncommittally and hands him a cup of tea. “Drink it all, please.”

He does, spilling it on his jaw and his shirt, but only just enough where Aziraphale won’t force him to change. Not again. The glass lands in his hands again and he smiles, replacing the rag on Crowley’s forehead.

“Cmon, Az, just make it a bit cooler… it’s so hot…” Crowley fidgets, then frowns, a bit of a sad frown that makes Aziraphale’s chest even more tight. “It’s - it’s burning,” he whispers slightly, voice choked off at the end.”

“That’ll be the holy water, love.”

“Holy water? I- I’m dead?”

“No,” he replies with a chuckle. “Very much alive, love, you absolutely stubborn bastard. You should be fine soon.”

At that, Crowley relaxes, then seems to rethink his decision to relax and puts a shaking hand on Aziraphale’s wrist.

“Yknow, Az.” He puts an arm up and points at the man in question, wincing backwards and recoiling slightly when it tugs on his still healing wings. “You’re- you’re you're you’re - you’re good. Really good.”

“Oh, why thank you Crowley, that’s very kind of you to say.”

”yeah...” he yawns, eyes starting to flutter shut, blinking open and closed again comically. Even if he looks a bit silly, Aziraphale can’t help but think he has nice eyelashes.

”Yeah, you’re - you’re real good,” he whispers, before his head tips back down, his hand slides from Aziraphales wrist, and his other hand plops down, lying still against a rumpled pillow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... is the romantic aspect going ok? Am I writing it decently?


	3. Chapter 3

Crowley’s fever breaks in the middle of the night.

Or, as it really should be called, his fever drains down the sink in nasty lumps of red and blue, then someone turns the garbage disposer on, making an awful lot of loud noise.

He staggers out of his room, still weak, and immediately runs into a very startled Aziraphale, who was holding a rather full glass of water, which spills all over Crowley.

Before anything else can happen, he flinches backwards, concealing an expression of fear quickly and righting himself, squeezing out his t-shirt as Aziraphale fusses over him. “Crowley, are you alright? Feeling any better? Have you just woke up?” He curses under his breath. “Did I wake you up?” The water is miracles away quickly as Crowley squeezes it out. 

“No, no you didn’t Angel, I got bored of being cooped up in that Satan forsaken room, so I removed myself.” He sighs, then gestures lamely to his shirt and raises his eyebrows, one of his confused and resigned expressions taking over. “Removed myself into a glass of water, it seems.”

“Oh, cmon, I said I was sorry - which I am,” Aziraphale adds hastily. “Would you like a glass?”

“I’d like a glass of scotch and revenge,” he mutters angrily. “But water, I guess, will have to suffice for a moment.” Swaggering past Aziraphale, he clutches the counter as he grabs himself a glass.

Now, Crowley’s brain is racing. How long was he out? What had he said? What had he done? Had he said anything about Aziraphale? He hopes to Heaven he hasn’t - it would bring God and quite a bit of embarrassment on his back if he’d accidentally confessed anything unsavory.

But, outwards, Crowley’s face is set in its typically hard frown, as he rummages through the glasses. His hands shake slightly, but he gets his water then saunters - not _stumbles,_ Crowley doesn’t stumble, he’s not a weakling he’s a demon - into the hallway with his plants, Aziraphale hot on his heels.

The plants shake under their masters ruthless gaze, and Crowley smiles - looking every bit a demon. “So, has anyone fell behind while I was out?”

They shake harder.

“Crowley, come off it, they’ve been wonderful. They’re all beautiful, I’ve been watering them myself.”

Crowley ignores him, instead walking over to a large fern sitting on the ground, with a tiny hole in it’s leaf farthest away from Crowley. His face grows more and more creased with anger, and he grabs the pot, lifting it high. “Unacceptable!” He roars indignantly. “This is what happens when I go away? Filthy!” Finally, he walks out, scoffing with shock.

Halfway through to the room with the shredder, the carrying proves to be too much for his healing wings and back, and he’s grown scarily pale - so Aziraphale grabs the fern from his arms, much to the demons surprise. “Give it back, Angel.”

“No, Crowley. You look like hell, and no - you aren’t allowed to be offended or anything - I’ve been to the damned place.” He sets the pot down in the hallway again, then grabs Crowley’s shoulder gently and steers him back to the room. “You, you’d better stay here or I’ll - I’ll. I’ll not be pleased!”

“Azi, I see you still can’t threaten for shit,” he replies, flopping down onto the bed where Aziraphale has gently pulled him.

The blush on Aziraphale’s cheeks is enough to send Crowley dashing away, but he doesn’t, instead spreading one leg out and placing the other atop the first, hunching over and placing his elbow on the pile. “Oh well. Seems angels can’t - what was the expression?” He frowns. “Can’t change their - can’t change their belts?”

“And I see you haven’t grown much with much of anything else,” grumbles Aziraphale before Crowley can say anything else insulting. “And it’s leopards can’t change their spots, not anything silly like angels and belts.”

He grabs the glass from Crowley’s hand as soon as he empties it. “I’ve got to change your bandages.”

“My, my what?” Crowley looks up sharply. “When the heaven did you have time to do that?”

“Dear, you were out like a light for two days - and I don’t blame you. I had ample time to begin the process.”

“Ngh,” is Crowley’s lazy grunt of a reply, what Aziraphale assumes is an “ok” in Crowley’s strange language of uncaring. “Can’t I just get drunk then you do it?”

“No, I’d rather not. If you’re drunk, you might lash out.”

“Me?” He holds a hand to his chest and feigns offense, drawing out his speech languidly. “Never!”

“Come on, let’s get this over with, dear. Better a bit annoyance than not.” He goes forward, and Crowley straightens reluctantly, raising his arms up and pulling his open-backed and quite comfortable shirt off.

Aziraphale gets to work, slowly unwrapping the bandages one by one, pulling them gently off his chest where they had pressed his wings too, assuring that they wouldn’t be moved.

“How are they?” Whispers Crowley, strangely subdued as he always is when his wings are being touched by anyone. “Will they heal?”

Aziraphale looks at it all with a worried expression. His back is still a pattern of raw burns, and his wings look as if someone’s tried to shred them. Crowley winces, eyes widening for a second as if he worries Aziraphale will pull all his feathers out as he pulls a feather off his wings, a particularly broken looking one.

Even if it looks dire, he knows they’ll heal eventually.

“Oh, they’ll be fine. Don’t worry, dear boy, they’re mended carefully. Let me re-wrap them, will you?”

Crowley nods, so out come the new rolls of bandages, Aziraphale pulling his wings back to his back as gently as possible and wrapping them back up. As soon as he’s finished, Crowley pulls away as if afraid, though he masks it well with a clearing of his throat and a rubbing of his eyes. “Well, I’m ready for a nap. Again.”

“Yes, again!” He says when Aziraphale gives him a funny look. “I know I was sleeping, but I slept through a whole century once, this shouldn’t be weird to you anymore Az!”

It’s really not, but he rolls his eyes affectionately anyways, a smile tugging at his lips as he watches Crowley turn over into his stomach, still shirtless as he yanks the black blankets over his back and his wings. Eventually, Aziraphale sighs and helps him untangle the writhing mass of cloth, pulling it over his back and his burns gently. “Sleep well, anyways,” he says as he walks away, shoes clicking against the ground accompanying the flashing of the lights going off and the quiet thud of the door shutting.

—-

Now, summoning circles of the caliber that were meant to trap our poor Crowley are very difficult.

One, they require an angel.

Two, they require a demon.

Three, they require quite a bit of chalk and candles, which is obviously the hardest to get.

The only reason why it is so hard is because the demon and angel will fight endlessly over what type of candles they want - hellish, black, dripping in skulls and blood? Or white, with doves and wreaths of laurel wrapped around it?

In the end, they settle for cheap candles from the dollar store, which settles their grumbling - as they are black _and_ white.

Of course, the chalk was white. It had to be, no matter how much the disgusting demon kept wrinkling his nose about it.

“Are we ready?” Asks the first human, standing in that grassy field, around noon.

“Wait till midnight,” replies the demon in his grating voice, black eyes swiveling to look at him. “Then summon him.”

—-

Exactly ten minutes before midnight, Crowley wakes up.

He’d been having a rather strange dreamless sleep, but seeing as he feels much better now, and no nightmares plagued him, he’s not exactly complaining.

Aziraphale is sitting in a chair that doesn’t match him at all - it’s much too regal, not at all matching his soft, beautiful style. That’s not to say Aziraphale isn’t regal, in fact, he’d make an excellent monarch.

He shuts his book when he sees that Crowley’s watching him, smiling. “How did you sleep?”

“Eh, surprise surprise, decently. Why’re you still here?”

He curses himself when an offended expression flits across Aziraphale’s face, then hardens. “No, I mean - you can stay, I don’t give a damn. Just… why’d you stay?”

“Well, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

Crowley blinks owlishly. “Well, yes. You just don’t need to stay if you don’t want to.”

“Well, I want to,” responds Aziraphale gently. “Do you need anything?”

“Eh.”

“That doesn’t tell me anything.”

Crowley sighs. “No.”

Aziraphale nods. “Would you like to hear what I’m reading?”

And Satan bless him, Aziraphale’s smile is so happy, so gentle - he looks like he’d kill to read his book out loud right now. How the hell does Crowley say _no_ to that? “Sure, what’s it about?”

“I thought I’d revisit Oscar Wilde… it’s a quite lovely children’s book of his.” He shows Crowley the cover, and it certainly looks like a children’s book, with a rather messy scrawl of a giant man and a child. “It’s called the friendly giant.”

Crowley snorts. “Go ahead, Angel.”

He does, and even if Crowley feels slightly insulted at the notion of falling asleep to a children’s book, he finds himself shutting his eyes. The book has just finished, when several things start to happen, and right at that moment, Crowley thinks:

“Fuck.”

Well, he must’ve said it out loud as well, because Aziraphale frowns at him. “Crowley, are you ok?”

“No, no no nope. Uhm-“ he cuts short as he launches up out of bed. “Very much fuck.” Suddenly, half of his left leg has gone to ash. He’s being summoned, again.

Wow, Aziraphale looks terrified, that’s not good. Damnit Crowley, you should’ve just stayed quiet.

“I’m- I’m sure it’ll be ok. Give me a second.”

Nothing Aziraphale says in that half a second matters, because Crowley’s arms shoot upwards to the heavens.

They launch into the sky, into a layer of clouds, and he stares at Aziraphale as time below them comes to a stop. “So.”

“Crowley, you can’t go back! You’re not even fully healed, you can’t - I refuse to let you do it!” Aziraphale stomps a foot down, letting off a poof of clouds. “I won't allow it, so help me God!”

“Well, Zira, I think you - I er, yeah I’m pretty sure I’ve got no choice. I can freeze time, but I can’t avoid… _that_ kind of summoning.”

“What do you mean _that_ kind?!”

“Well, this summoning circle they’re using, it’s gotta be made by a Hell and Heaven official, or someone with at least an ounce of power.” He mouth twists into an annoyed grimace. “I’m awfully tired of these people. Can’t I just, kill them or something?”

Aziraphale frowns. “You wouldn’t, let’s be honest. You’re too nice for that.”

“Not nice, I’m a demon. Don’t call me that.”

The angel walks forward, sighing as exasperatedly as ever. No, Crowley definitely does not wish they’re going to kiss.

Instead, Aziraphale grabs his shoulders tightly, as close to a hug as they usually get. “I’m not letting you do this alone, Crowley. You put on a damn good mask of indifference -“

“I am a demon.”

“Shush. You’re good at it, but I’d rather not have to see you - see you like _that_ again.”

Aziraphale’s voice is choked with worry, as if something’s inching its way forth from his lungs, and his wings curl inwards slightly, as if he wants to pull them around Crowley.

No - Crowley’s wings don’t draw closer in response. No, they don’t, not at all.

“So, so I’m coming with you, but first we’ve got to work out a plan.”

“Aziraphale… we don’t have any way to make a plan.” He sighs, throwing his hands up in defeat, blowing the light and fluffy clouds at the bottom around a bit. “There’s nothing to do! These blasted idiots will take me, and then something will happen, I’ll get back to you eventually!”

“No!” Aziraphale’s tone is bitterly sharp, and Crowley recoils. “No! I absolutely will not let you do that. Frankly, f- fuck that!” Crowley gapes in surprise. “Don’t look so shocked, dear, you’re my friend! I don’t like seeing or know you’re hurt!”

“Ok, so what in the blazes are you proposing?!” Its almost a shout. “We don’t have many options here, Angel!”

“We - we can switch bodies again!” Aziraphale’s face lights up, and _no,_ for the last time, it doesn’t make Crowley want to cry whenever he sees him so excited. “The circle was summoning you, and holy water doesn’t affect me, it’ll work!”

Mulling this over, he sighs. “I mean, the binding circle was only for catching demons.” He shrugs. “So you’d be fine to fight as well. It wouldn’t keep you stuck.”

“But still… Angel, are you sure of this? It’s risky, bloody ridiculous.”

“Crowley, for the love of God, give me your body and let’s get this done with. I’m not letting you get hurt again.”

At Aziraphale’s rather badly-phrased comment, Crowley grins. “Oh, it’s my body you want?” He holds out a hand, grinning lazily.

“Crowley! No, you know what I mean!” Aziraphale, blushing, takes Crowley’s hand. “How did they even know you weren’t actually immune to holy water?”

Halfway through his sentence his voice switches to Crowley’s. “Beats me,” says Crowley in Aziraphale’s body. “I don’t think the angel and demon working with them told them anything. It was probably a surprise that it worked.”

Aziraphale stuffs his hands in his pockets, slumping forward a bit.

“No, no, Azira - lean _back,”_ Crowley says, exasperated as he straightens his back, crossing his arms. “I don’t slump!”

Looking very uncomfortable, Aziraphale draws his shoulders backwards and grabs a pair of glasses out of his pockets. “Let’s do this, then,” he says, sounding strained for a moment.

“Let’s.”

—-

With that, time begins anew - and Aziraphale - with Crowley’s body, goes rocketing through the circle, finding himself sitting in a circle of grass, chalk and flame with a grin, surrounded by a mass of familiar hoods.

He stands. “Hello again, boys. Pleasure to see you again!”

As he waves to them, the leader walks towards him again, speaking the word meant to immobilize him. His grin stretches wider.

All Aziraphale does is stretch his arms out and tut.

“Well, I still feel all right and well, I don’t know about you, folks?” Is his response as he glances back over at them, feigning confusion.

A circle of gasps goes round, and the cloaked circle of people begin to mutter to one another, almost comically. 

“What the fuck?”

That comes from one of the men, still hooded - though his body language making it very obvious he despises it.

“I knew your pathetic earthly candles wouldn’t work!”

The hood goes flying off, to reveal a disgustingly grey scalp, a head of welts, and two massive black pupils, rimmed with red and white at the same time. He’s hideous, and also instantly recognizable.

_Hastur._

He must’ve said it aloud as well, as the demon laughs. “Yes, Crowley, it’s me.” He steps forward and glares. “Or, more accurately, Aziraphale.”

—-

Several things happen at once.

A phone rings.

A demon disguised as an angel paces, not nervously - never nervously. For Satan’s sake, demons don’t get nervous.

An angel disguised as a demon gets ready to prepare a miracle.

He’s too late, and has no time to react when a blast of hellfire slams right into him.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Let’s go back to the beginning.

In the beginning, hellfire didn’t exist. There was no reason, no possible way for it to exist, as only one party of good and evil had been brought about.

When the fall happened, there was an awful lot of holy water involved.

You see, when angels fall, their angelic powers and essence must be burnt away before they can work as demons. So that means getting rid of their heavenly miracles, their snowy white wings, their humanity, their love.

In _most_ cases, that is.

Of course, some are outliers.

Take Crowley, for example. He’s really not much of a demon, never has been, never will. He has his demonic powers, his snake form, his raven black wings, but in other ways he’s ridiculously angelic.

His wings, for example - no one else has. Even if they’ve been dyed with the ash he fell into during his fall, no other demon possesses anything like them.

His love. Crowley loves quite a bit, for being a demon, even if he pretends not to, or doesn’t love quite as much as an angel. He’s been subjected to reporting to hell for nearly 6000 years, it’s not exactly strange that his heart has hardened, to an extent.

He’s also a trickster, but a bit of a ridiculous one. His pranks - he does enjoy, but he doesn’t enjoy them when people get genuinely hurt for it, he prefers to see them dance around a moment in pain, whether emotional or physical, then go back to normal.

So, he’s a bit of a failure as a demon. He’s mostly just human - not quite angelic, not quite demonic - extremely similar to Aziraphale.

But that isn’t the point.

The point is, when all of the angelic powers are burnt away, they’re left with a charred residue of their old powers.

Part of that is the opposite of water - flame. So this is where hellfire was created, at the first fallen.

Without them, hellfire would’ve never come about.

Without them, that blaze of hellfire jetting towards a very frightened Aziraphale would’ve been holy water - so completely useless.

Ifs are useless of course, and dwelling on the past doesn’t change it - so the hellfire launching towards him is still hellfire.

With Crowley, it’s quite the opposite. The basic breeds of hellfire don’t affect him in the slightest, they never have - not since he fell.

Even now, when he’s become so much more human than before, it doesn’t harm him, as he leaps out of his own phone, jumping right into the path of the fire before it can burn through Aziraphale’s chest.

As he brushes hands with Aziraphale, their bodies go back to normal, leaving a very angry looking demon to stand, body flaming and wings straining against their bandages.

Aziraphale stumbles backwards slightly, and so does Hastur - his eyes widening as he takes in the lanky form of the flaming Crowley.

“The fuck ‘re you doing here, Hastur?” Asks Crowley, sauntering as always, face a glare fit to scare a gargoyle. “Do you want to start a war? Killing an angel isn’t the smartest thing to do, you fuckass!”

“Ohohoho! Welcome back, Crowley!” Hastur’s arms fling out. “Plus - it’s not an act of war when you’ve got angels on your side!”

The occultists look surprised at the intrusion, arms torn from their sleeves and hoods thrown back with the wave of air that blew them. Some run away - some draw shortened knives and await their fight.

Another hooded figure steps forward, flinging off his hood to reveal the frozen, emotionless smile of Gabriel.

“Oh wow,” says Crowley, unimpressed as he gestures to him. “You got a dumbass to help you.” Now, he turns to Gabriel.

“You’ll be punished for this, obviously,” says Aziraphale, walking up behind Crowley, far enough away to be immune to the hellfire wreathing him. “You’ve got no chance of actually getting off scot free.”

Scoffing, Gabriel smiles. “Well, they won’t find out, you see. We’ll kill you stupid idiots, then there’ll be no evidence left! It’s not like Satan or God are actually _checking_ for you! Do you think they really care about some overweight angel and his pansy of a boyfriend?”

Oh, bad idea.

Crowley runs forward, expelling the burning flame outwards, letting it fly into Gabriel, who side-steps it awkwardly.

Aziraphale, still stunned, performs a miracle.

He disappears, leaving Hastur chuckling. “Look, even he’s left you now!”

It doesn’t worry Crowley too much - he knows Gabriel and Hastur risk drawing attention if they use the full extent of their power. He’s not scared - yet.

Despite that - Crowley looks over, and in the split second of attention lost, Gabriel draws his sword, jabbing it through to his chest.

The sword veers of course as a new one hits it, wielded by Aziraphale. Sparks go flying, and join the fire depleting to be held only in Crowley’s hand. “You get Hastur!” says Aziraphale as he thrusts his sword forward again, soft eyes reflecting the jagged flame rumbling  in Crowley’s grasp. “I’ll get the rest of the filth!”

Crowley nods, then runs over to Hastur, who merely chuckles, a few maggots crawling from his slimy maw of a mouth, his most disgusting defense against Crowley’s devilish miracles.

His first miracle splits the earth open, sending Hastur flying into the dirt below them.

The second magics himself a cup of strong wine, which he promptly chugs, then crushes under his foot.

Pain masked from his inebriation, he grins, yanking his sunglasses off his face and shoving them to the ground, smashing them under his foot with a chuckle.

“Don’t just stand, you blasted idiots,” sighs Gabriel, staring at the random occultists still left.

They center on Crowley and Aziraphale, swiping wildly at them with their blades.

One nicks Crowley’s cheek and he grows, sealing it with a quick miracle.

Aziraphale performs a miracle of his own breed, and the rest of the people begin to disappear, one by one.

The final one runs towards Aziraphale with a shout, knife poised to hit his back, just as he disappears.

That man ends up appearing in his own bakery, smashing a display case and setting off several alarms. Five minutes later, the police arrive and arrest the suspicious hooded figure with a weapon inside.

“Come up again, Hastur you ugly lug!” Crowley shouts, drawing a nonchalant giggle from Aziraphale, who is currently avoiding Gabriel’s massive blade.

Thankfully, he has yet to be wounded, though he’s getting closer than he’d like.

Right as he thinks that, his blade goes shoving into Gabriel’s arm, only skimming it, but still managing to gather a roar from the angry Archangel. His arm flies out and grabs Aziraphale by the neck, which proves to be a mistake, as Aziraphale takes the close proximity to his advantage, cutting through Gabriel’s shirt and slicing deep into his stomach.

“Who’s got too much gut now?” He shouts out, laughing vengently. “You think you’re better than me?”

Crowley, staring at Hastur, laughs.

He even continues to laugh when Hastur advances on him, his flames burning pink-ish, just a bit of the hue surrounding his hand now - he’s switched his flame type.

Hastur has his own type of special power. While Crowley has a few tricks he keeps to himself for the most part, Hastur has a flame that no one can avoid. It burns brighter than hellfire, and it’s currently blazing straight out of his arm.

“I’ll get you, Crowley!” he roars, deranged, limping steadily towards his target.

Crowley roars back, head turning into a snake for a split second before he races forward, ducking under Hasturs flaming hand and behind him, landing a kick to his back.

Hastur flies into the pit.

Again.

On the other part of the field, Gabriel lands a strike against Aziraphale, cutting his arm enough to start a spew of bloody mess down his jacket, leaving Aziraphale to groan in annoyance as he watches the gold stain his coat.

For a moment, Aziraphale focuses his powers on that cut as he dodges more blows, continuing to parry Gabriel’s other shots as he grits his teeth.

Crowley dodges a flying blaze of power from Hastur, right as the demon climbs back up.

As Hastur makes it up to the top, he manages to grab hold of Crowley’s leg. The next moment, he yanks him into the hole with him, the product being a disgruntled Crowley and a very loud snap.

To Crowley’s relief, the disgustingly wet crack is the breaking of one of Hastur’s fingers, not his beautiful crows wings yet again - though the noise doesn’t fail to make him flinch.

As the opposing side gasps in pain in front of him, Crowley staggers to his feet, dizzy, regaining his nerves.

Throwing out his arms, he shouts: “just give up, Hastur! You’re not going to kill us!”

A blaze of fire smacks into Crowley’s outstretched arm and he wrenches it down, patting out the fire and wishing Hastur’s bullshit wasn’t demonic in origin - or he could just heal it.

“I will win! We will kill you!”

The burns on Hastur’s head start to weep maggots, right as Gabriel’s angelic skin starts to blaze with god’s grace, right as his angelic hard on probably begins to grow even more excited at the prospect of killing Aziraphale.

The white even begins to blind Aziraphale, who has to take a step backwards, swinging blindly.

Maggots begin to pool at the two demons feet, and Crowley remembers one of the exact reasons he despises people touching his wings.

Both of them begin to realize that both Hastur and Gabriel have ceased caring about raising attention.

That’s a surprise, going against direct letters from the voice of God and Satan respectively - even if they didn’t write the notes themselves. The archangels and Dukes of hell were in charge of that - but the letters still should’ve been followed.

He kicks at the maggots, making his way over to Hastur with a rabid frown, throwing punch after punch at the man when he gets close enough.

The maggots rise to his knees.

Aziraphale falls into the pit.

“Oh, this is simply disgusting!” He says with disdain, pulling himself out of the writhing bugs, drawing his sword off and shaking maggots off it. 

Hastur looks behind Crowley with a glare, rolling his eyes at Aziraphale dusting maggots off his arms like it's just a speck of sand.

Crowley turns to look behind in surprise - he knows it’s a mistake - he regrets it a second later, when a blast of fatal hellfire rockets into his chest.

—-

Crowley is far from an idiot.

As demons, angels and humans go, he’s actually quite intelligent. He’s got more of an imagination than most, and while he doesn’t use it for much other than keeping his car together or a few different frivolous miracles, it’s there.

But oh, love and worry can turn someone into a dunce - evidenced by the pure worry emanating from Crowley as hears a large thump from behind him, accompanied by Aziaphales sharp, breathless voice.

The air is screaming with heat, when it surrounds Crowley, as Hartur takes his moment to strike.

For the second time in his lifetime, Crowley….

….falls.

No, falling isn’t pleasant. In fact, falling was excruciating for a demon like Crowley, because for all of his little pranks he pulled, he had truly been angelic at heart once.

Crowley tells people he sauntered vaguely downwards.

A lie, is what that is. He collapsed through misty clouds, a hole opening beneath his feet, his body plummeting downwards. It was days, months, years, eternity before the holy water stripped away his heavenly body, leaving him a cold shell - an empty husk.

He landed against sulphurous ash, blazing flames, and a dozen or so fallen angels weeping, some mourning as the first to fall without wanting to.

Those ones had died out quickly, murdered ruthlessly by Lucifer, one by one, with his lackeys jeering calls following them.

Nowadays he certainly wasn’t as angelic - as opposed to before and right after he fell.

Hastur could explode any demon he liked with his flames, as long as he managed to hit them full on, which is exactly what he did.

There was no heroic leap blocking it this time - no weapons shoving the blaze out of the way. Just Crowley - and fire he is unable to avoid flowing to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hastur and Gabriel are an Archangel of Heaven and duke of hell respectively, but even they don’t want to get the attention of the seraphim or the princess/king of hell. I’m going off of a lot of Christian lore for all this, and so I’m focusing on how Beelzebub, or Azmodee, for example, are princes, while Satan/Lucifer (yes, I’m regarding them as the same person, i know some “lore” doesn’t,) is the king. 
> 
> I’m getting some of this screwed, I know, but it’s been a long time since I was a practicing Christian, so it’s all kind of left my mind. 
> 
> That’s why their powers are significantly toned down, why they’re not doing great in the battle till the end.
> 
> I hope it was ok!
> 
> ALSO don’t hate me for cliffhangers.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok I’m just gonna promise right now this one doesn’t have a massive cliffhanger or anything so don’t worry. I know it’s annoying to do two in a row, let alone three. I’m not evil enough to do that lol

Time feels like it’s slowing as Aziraphale watches Crowley plummet to the ground, his beautiful black wings falling first, sinking into a sea of ravenous maggots.

Hastur grins devilishly as he glares at the blood and burns erupting against Crowley’s flesh, and Gabriel leaps down, his holy light receding to begrudgingly make way for Hastur to survive.

Hastur recedes his maggots as well, leaving the archangel and the duke of hell standing in contemplative silence as the time stretches onwards.

“Can we watch for a moment?” whispers Grabiel, leaning forward to stare. “I want to savour this.”

He gets no response from Hastur, and so he watches on, as Aziraphale grabs Crowley by the shoulders, gripping at the weakly gasping man with hands slick with blood, the same black liquid splattering against the angels chest as Crowley coughs.

“A- angel. G- you - go,” whispers the demon, eyes brimming with tears of pain, mouth opening and closing weakly, leaking ink. “G- go. They’ll - k- kill…”

“No!” Shouts Aziraphale furiously, pulling his already half off sunglasses away gently to stare into the golden eyes of the fallen angel.  “No, no, Crowley, dear friend, don’t you dare! Stay awake!”

He lets out a sob, sliding his hands onto Crowley’s chest and trying desperately to stem the gushing blood to no avail.

The demon beneath him continues to cough, convulsing and letting out breathless gasps of pain, his gentle grip on Aziraphale’s arm becoming weaker by the second.

The red hair against his tipped back head is soaked in sweat and blood, and his throat constricts, the sweat on his forehead shining in the moonlight. Aziraphale takes it all in, and wishes so deeply he could chalk it all up to a horrible horrible nightmare.

“They’re rather pitiful, aren’t they?” Grunts Hastur, grinning at Gabriel’s nod.

They are blocked entirely from Aziraphale’s mind - all he can see is Crowley, wonderful, ridiculous, _burning_ Crowley, blood streaming down his chest and his face, his wings in maggot-bitten tatters - all because Aziraphale simply wasn’t quick enough to protect his demon.

_His love._

Crowley’s hands drop from Aziraphale’s arms, still soaked with blood, his breath growing shorter, his chest heaving for air, his mouth gurgling bloody wheezes. “Please,” whispers Aziraphale. “Please - Crowley, love, stay with me-“ he chokes on a sob as Crowley groans painfully. “ _Stay with me”_

But of course,

he does not.

Crowley’s chest stills.

His eyes flutter shut, the mischievous light leaching from his golden eyes before Aziraphale loses sight of them.

Crowley’s ever present movement ends.

Aziraphale sobs, loud, unashamed, terrified and broken.

—-

In the skies, She watches on, the entire moment saddening her beyond belief.

You see, God Herself has always enjoyed watching Her two children, viewing their ridiculous pining for millennia - watching how much it hurt them to dance around each other.

Sometimes, She wished She could open up her land and jump through - She wished she could explain things to Crowley, and reassure Aziraphale, but She was stuck where she was. _No more meddling,_ is what she had promised, all those years ago, after too much of Her power had gone twisted, corrupted against Her will.

She really quite despised watching Her creations die - especially these two - so special, the ones not quite angel, not quite demon either. Not quite human, not quite, well, not.

Everything about them threw Her for a loop, they were unlike anything She’d ever seen. Even Lucifer wasn’t like this, when he was an angel. He was different, but in the way that he chased after Her favoritism, not free-will, or individuality. He thought Her attention towards humans was unfair, and for that - he decided his only path was to become violent.

Crowley and Aziraphale, on the other hand, were not quite as desperate.

All they’d ever wanted was to be left alone, to not have to be _anything,_ to only be themselves.

But now She watches Her Crowley die, surrounded by the essence of what he loved - Aziraphale.

She watches Hastur, and Gabriel - her Archangel, the one She assumed was to be trusted - she watches them advance upon a sobbing Aziraphale clutching the corpse of his love, weapons outstretched.

She will not remain still. She won’t let this story slip through Her ethereal fingers that she doesn’t actually have.

She’s remained stagnant in time for much too long.

—-

Death is a very strange figure. He’s tall and terrifically bony, no pun intended. Even with how bizarre he looks, Crowley’s not very scared when he sees him, only resigned. He can’t really remember what he was doing, before he died - or _how_ he died for that matter.

“HELLO, CROWLEY,” says the skeletal figure before him, lounging with an arm resting atop a mountain of clouds, his scythe held lazily in his other hand. “IT’S BEEN A WHILE.”

“Bah, not really,” he replies, flapping a hand in dismissal. “It should’ve been longer, but really, I doubt there’s much I could’ve done to stop my death. Was it badass?”

Death nods. “VERY.”

Crowley grins. “Well, there’s that, at least. So, how does this work? You throw me in some hole, you just leave and I don’t exist anymore?”

“ACTUALLY, GOD HAD QUITE A DIFFERENT PLAN FOR YOU, CROWLEY.”

Crowley groans. “Oh, bollocks. What the bloody hell does She want with me now! I’m fallen anyways! And dead,” he points out to death, who nods.

“SURPRISINGLY, QUITE A BIT.” Death frowns. “DON’T GIVE ME THAT LOOK, IT’S NOT AS IF I ASKED HER TO PLAN THINGS FOR YOU

“Well, She’s not here, so I’ll glare at you as much as- as much as I like.” He points at death, sneering. “You’re my new point of anger. How’d I die anyways?”

If Death could roll his eyes, he would’ve. In fact, he’d been waiting for an awful long time for this moment - no, he wasn’t excited for Crowley’s death, just annoyed that he wouldn’t be able to roll his eyes at the demon’s ridiculousness.

“WELL, IT SEEMS THAT SHE’S HAD A PLAN FOR YOU AND AZIRAPHALE FOR QUITE SOME TIME.” He tips his head and thinks back for a moment. “LETS SEE, SHE FIRST TOLD ME IT A FEW DAYS AFTER YOUR BIRTH.”

Crowley throws his hands out in exasperation. “Uhh! No fair! I’m dead here, I’m supposed to get my eternal darkness now, please and thank you!”

**Crowley.**

The demon in question jumps. “Woah - woah, what the - What in the heaven?”

**Crowley, please. You know it’s time.**

“I do not bloody know, _mother,”_ he spits venomously, eyes to the empty blue skies above him. “What in the blazes are you trying to tell me - I’m tired of your cryptic bullshit!”

“In fact, I’m tired of you in general!”

**Crowley.**

“No, no no no no no! Shut the fuck up! I’m already dead - smite me for all I care! I’m so - I’m so tired of this! I only asked questions and you shoved me through torture and sulphorous pits - you gave me these _disgusting_ eyes,” he shouts, ripping his sunglasses off, Golden pools watching the sky’s for anything and nothing at all.

“You gave me these - these wings - and - and you stripped me of my Grace!”

His voice is choked, as if even the stoic demon Crowley is close to tears.

“I just - you - you abandoned me,” he says, sinking to his knees, face still boiling with anger as he stares ahead. “It’s taken you all this time - I’ve even tried talking to you before... but not you want to talk?” 

“You abandoned me, and now I’m back in your plan? Written back in, like it's your dying will? I didn’t ask for this!” He looks down at his hands, resting palm up in his lap. “I didn’t ask to be your creation, I didn’t ask to be bloody _born!”_

**I never wanted you to fall.**

That gets Crowley to pause, eyes shutting, gripping the bridge of his nose and pulling his mouth upwards into a strange, Crowley-esque sneer. “You - you _what?”_

**I didn’t want you to fall, but the moment that rebellion sparked - that the seed of original sin was planted, I knew that out of anyone, you would be the only person merciful as to do the right thing, but the wrong thing at once.**

“You mean you had me fallen so that original sin, and your stupid plan would go right?”

**Well, yes.**

She has the decency to have a sheepish tone, but it doesn’t do much to quell the anger in Crowley.

“I could’ve been an angel all this time - frolicking in your  _“graceful light,”_ blah blah blah, but no, mommy dearest wanted me to make things go Her way?”

“And for what! Things aren’t any better now - humans are a crapshoot, demons are angry at you all the time, angels are complete garbage bag assholes!” He laughs, but it reverses to a hiss at the end, as it often does when he gets overly emotional.

“You are ssso ssselfish!” He stands back up, screaming into the misty sky again and stabbing a finger into his sternum, face a caricature of fury. “Strike me down again! Kill me! Fall me! _Kill me!”_

It’s silent.

“Say something,” he yells out into the air. “Anything! Strike me down, smite me but don’t just _leave!”_

The silence remains, and Crowley falls to his knees again, gripping his face in one hand, shaking with rage, the other hand curling into the dove-down clouds that surrounded him.

His mouth is contorted into an angry snarl, his nose wrinkling and colliding with his eyebrows, yanked together as outrage and a bone chilling sense of grief emanates from him.

“I - I just wanted to be right. Not - not a demon, not an angel. Just - just wanted to be with - with Aziraphale, just wanted to be _good…”_ he trails off, nails digging divots into his cheekbone and the clouds beneath his other fist.

He gasps. “P -please. Just… just…” he puts a hand over his mouth to muffle a choked laugh of exasperation. “Just let me go.”

“I’m so… so, so tired… so bloody tired…”

**I’m sorry, Crowley.**

**But you have Aziraphale. You have the planet you love.**

**You must return to them - finish your final task. You will know. Then, you will be free.**

Crowley manages a resigned, saddened nod, then his body shimmers in a blaze of holy light and he disappears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God is just basically everyone watching Good Omens. Shipping it fuckin’ endlessly I guess.
> 
> Hope She was well written cause yes, I’m going with SHE. Hope the chapter in general was ok!


	6. Chapter 6

Aziraphale isn’t exactly the most menacing figure - not to an Archangel. But now - when his sword bursts into flames, and light begins to flow from him in waves, dangerously bright, enough to make Hastur stumble away, it’s a bit different.

His face has fury etched into its every inch, his knuckles whitening in their grip on the sword. He slips Crowley off his lap, gently, lying his arms next to his sides, taking one last glimpse at the broken, bloodstained man before him before he stands, wiping tears from his face.

“Aziraphale!” Shouts Gabriel, over the deep pitched patter of rain beginning to fall.

The wind is all that Aziraphale listens to, as it whistles against his coat.

Crowley had liked the wind.

“Surrender! You’re being called to trial again!”

Obviously, he doesn’t.

He knows he’ll fail - the power rumbling from Gabriel right now would be reducing Aziraphale to jelly if it hadn’t been that he was still standing out of sheer determination.

Gabriel flicks a finger and a hole opens under Hastur, sending the demon flying through the dirt, screaming curses at the Archangel while throwing handfuls of maggots upwards till he's out of sight and view.

Aziraphale runs at Gabriel, his sword suddenly confident. Not _his_ sword - he’d simply borrowed it, yet the flames seems to follow him when he uses any blade - no matter the origin.

Even God might say he paints a frightening picture - so unafraid. So bright.

She’d always liked him. He played a part too - a large one, just like Crowley.

He’s so ready - so _very ready_ to kill Gabriel - to slide his sword into the throat of the man who had constantly abused him, and had ruthlessly killed one of the only people Aziraphale cared about. His blade is finally held properly,  his wings flying out at his sides, _beautiful._

He is so ready, but it seems Gabriel doesn’t care for readiness.

Gabriel has a stoic expression on his face as, in a sudden flash of light, Uriel and Michael appear behind him.

Aziraphale’s hands are wrapped in a holy cord a moment later, his sword turned to ash - but even in his bindings he glares brilliantly, not losing a small bit of his fury. He isn’t even scared - he knows he will likely be killed for this, but what would be the point of remaining on earth without Crowley?

“You, Aziraphale, are being sentenced to trial for numerous crimes,” drones out Michael boredly. “Your trial is a private matter and shall consist only of the Archangels Michael, Gabriel, Uriel, Ariel, Raphael, Jophiel, Azrael, and Chamuel as council.”

The remaining angels materialize soon after - some of the better Archangels.

There’s Ariel, with her pale white skin, draped in golden flowers and robes, her skin dotted with color, beautiful plants and patterns swirling on her flesh. Her misty white eyes fall on Crowley’s corpse, then Aziraphale’s face, and she smiles almost sympathetically.

Then Raphael, his skin brown as earth, beautiful and soft. He holds a staff and a satchel, his traditional sandals golden. He wears a white, flowing tunic, and light blue pants that billow gently in the wind around his legs. His expression is one of pity as he looks at Aziraphale - he’d always been quite gentle.

Jophiel steps into view, with her brightly colored dress, the bottom a whirling flame of all colors known to any species alive, seeming to twist together and fold in and out over and over again. They match her eyes perfectly, twirling from color to color as if she can’t choose. She has no expression other than a sad curiosity, her eyes fixed on the bindings on Aziraphale’s wrists.

Azrael - _Death,_ strides through a pocket of void, holding his scythe, the bottom of his tattered robes flowing in and out of existence as he nods at Aziraphale.

That hurts the most, the acknowledgment of what has happened to Crowley burns painfully, and Aziraphale’s fury dips into grief for a moment before he manages to pull up his furious scowl once again.

Chamuel is the last to arrive, wearing a strangely human outfit - a long purple button down tucked into white jeans, his dark hands clasped together solemnly. He stares at Aziraphale for a moment, then rips his light green eyes away and rubs at them furiously hard for a moment, looking distraught as he realizes what has occurred.

On another day, Aziraphale might’ve greeted them warmly. He always did enjoy the other Archangels.

But not today.

Now, he only walks forward, surrendering his arms to the lot of them, glaring brightly with tears still flowing from his eyes. They all still seem slightly too above him to care - and he ignores the sadness in their eyes as they stare at him.

In Aziraphale’s eyes, they don’t care about Crowley, they only care that an angel has been reduced to a fool.

He disappears into the heavens a second later.

The ornate doors to the trial room open with a snap of Michael’s perfectly manicured fingers, and she steps inside, drawing everyone else inside with her.

Well, Aziraphale was only really watching her fingers because he knew in a moment they’d either be pointing at him to be fallen or killed.

Not that he much cared - it was more that he wondered what her hands would look like chained up.

—-

Deep, deep in hell, at the final layer, Hastur rips himself off the sulphurous ground and howls.

He all but screams a trillion demonic curses as heat beats down on him, then manages to muster up enough common sense to use a bit of demonic magic to miracle him to Beelzebub.

“They killed him!” He shouts, limping towards the iron-cast throne the prince of hell, former seraphim lounges on.

“Crowley - the Archangel Gabriel just declared war!” he says, lying through his teeth.

Beelzebub turns in their seat, the flies around them buzzing irritatedly. “Hastur, What the fuck are you rambling on about?”

Hastur lumbers forward towards the throne. “Gabriel killed Crowley - he’s gone forever now. I don’t really care, but this means -“ he grins, panting. “This means he declares _war.”_

Beelzebub straightens.

Now, any other time, with any other demon, they might not have listened.

But right after the apocowasnt? With demons writhing against their orders - ready to fight, even still? With a Duke of Hell reporting it?

Oh, why not.

They’ve got hell to raise.

—-

Michael pulls Aziraphale forward with the holy bindings in her hands, shoving him none too politely into the same stiff office chair Crowley must have sat in during his trial disguised as Aziraphale.

He’s in the middle of the room - in fact, a very special room.

The execution room - which also happens to double as the trial room.

The choice of room isn’t lost on him - he can already tell what is about to happen to him, and he has resigned himself to let what happens, happen.

“Let us begin.” Michael gestures to Gabriel. “Accusing side, begin.”

“I accuse Aziraphale, Principality, Guardian of the eastern gate with treason of the highest order. Fraternizing with the Demon Crawly -“

“It’s Crowley. Anthony J. Crowley,” says Aziraphale, drawing all of the attention of each of the Archangels. “You’d do well to recognize that.”

“ _Silence!”_ Shouts Michael, slapping her hands together. “Let the charges proceed.”

“Lying, gluttony -“

“I am not a glutton,” he says, affronted. “Just because you are an infernal _bigot-“_

“Again, Aziraphale, cease your chatter!” Says Michael, sharper than ever. “Proceed, Gabriel.”

“And finally, pardon the _intrusions,_ interfering with God’s ineffable plan.”

“I haven’t interfered with anything! No one knows what God’s pl-“

“Shut your mouth!” Screeches Gabriel. “Shut up!”

“NO, LET HIM SPEAK,” says Azrael, his booming voice resounding around the room, emanating out of the stringy hole of human flesh and bone that is his mouth.

“HE SHOULD HAVE A CHANCE TO SPEAK HIS DEFENSE, GABRIEL. YOU ARE THE ACCUSING, NOT THE LEADER.“

Gabriel looks stormy, glaring so brightly his purple eyes seem to be flaming. “Fine.”

“As I was saying, God has never written Her ineffable plan anywhere, so who are we to assume that I have done any interfering? Who are we to say - that Gabriel hasn’t interfered with Her plan?”

Michael turns to the rest of the Archangels, standing all in a neat row. “Shall the charges of interference and gluttony remain? All that agree to drop charges, raise your left hand.”

The Archangels turn to each other and murmur for a moment. After a few minutes of deliberation, all of them but Uriel raise their hands, gazes drifting back to Michael.

“Charges of gluttony and interfering are dropped. Aziraphale, do you have anything else to say?”

Aziraphale tilts his head, considering this. “No,” is his reply, cold and uncaring. “I don’t suppose I do.”

Michael is about to announce the examining of proof - when a low-level angel and a few words interrupt her entirely.

The doors burst open, a very winded angel running through, causing all of the angels inside to turn around to stare at them. They’re merely standing there, one hand on their knee, the other raised in the air as if to ask for them to pause. He looks up a moment later, his long red locks forcing Aziraphale to look away - remaining him too much of Crowley.

The man starts to speak just as the ground rumbles beneath them. He grips tighter at his robes, one sandal loose from his foot already - he seems to have been dashing. “Well? Spit it out!” Snaps Gabriel.

“The - the forces of hell.”

“They’re coming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I despise Gabriel - and even though I could change what he’s doing - I am writing him of course - I won’t. Because I personally believe that everyone gets what they deserve eventually.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are probably not gonna like the fact that this is such short chapter, but here we are. I am posted twice in one day though! And I’ve got some angst for you!!! So have fun! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

By coming, the young angel means every demon of hell is amassing on the earth's surface - crawling up from the ground as bugs and animals and all manner of slimy things and transforming into mockery of humans, weapons drawn.

Some of them have taken back their true forms - tall, clawed, angry creatures with massive wings and scaled tails swishing behind them. Those will be lost first - a true form is hard to stay away from. It is a temptation that angels can recover from easily, but demons can not.

They will remain in that form until the battle is won, or it is lost.

Some have gone halfway - their claws ready, fanged grins open. Those of them will survive - and their kill counts will be mountainous.

Even more of them are simply rotting corpses of humans, molding over and dripping with bubbling flesh, armor lazily slapped on and guns, lances, swords, cannons, arrows and all matter of weapons in their hands - if they’ve got hands, that is.

The angels are ridiculously prepared.

In a matter of minutes, the Archangels have tugged Aziraphale to the armory, equipping him with a sword and telling him he must fight - fight against the demons and fight to end the world.

Even the most docile of them all - Raphael, the healer, has pulled armor on and shoved a bag full of medical supplies and holy water.

Aziraphale’s weapon clatters to the floor as they urge him to go to his station - each of them trying and failing to force him to leave. He isn’t their problem anymore - the trial will continue if he survives past the hour.

In the end, Azrael tells them he will bring him to the dungeon.

Well, Azrael - _Death,_ lies.

Instead, he pulls him to the hallway, and gestures to his chest with his scythe, still dressed with only his black cloak and weapon.  “YOU’VE GOT A PART TO PLAY, AZIRAPHALE. GO WHERE YOU’D LIKE, NOW. PLAY YOUR PART WELL. GOD IS WATCHING, AND SHE IS WITH YOU.”

And with that abrupt and cryptic message finished, Death disappears into a sudden smoke, leaving Aziraphale extremely confused, standing in the great halls of heaven, surrounded by white.

So of course, he does what he’s been told, and miracles his way to Crowley.

—-

The blood has all been washed away from his pallid face, his curls now sullied with mud and curled against his high cheekbones. His eyelashes bow permanently, arching, a dark contrast against his deadened cheeks.

Aziraphale feels a pang of guilt for allowing his friend to be reduced to this after death - for in his small time away from Crowley he has already been covered in filth.

He ignores the feeling of guilt - and his tears with the lump in his throat, if just for a moment - and gets to work.

Despite Gabriel’s opinion, Aziraphale is really quite strong. He slides an arm underneath Crowley’s back, willing the man’s wings out of the human plane with a miracle, guilty that he must.

He hooks the other arm under his knees, lifting him gently and brushing the curls off his face as Crowley’s mouth falls open, just slightly - as his head tips backwards slightly and falls into his chest.

Tears fall in rivulets down his face, as he feels Crowley’s unconscious head tilt towards his heart. He folds the demons hands and arms up out of the air, unwilling to leave them dangling. They sit against his unmoving chest.

Crowley has always constantly moved, in life.

But now he’s dead, and Aziraphale is sobbing in a pit of mud, soaking himself in the pouring rain, the wind howling a mournful tune. His knees dig into the mud, and he lifts from the terrain, unbothered by the mess layering itself upon him.

He knows exactly where the forces of heaven and hell are joining, but he doesn’t care. Heaven and Hell can rot, for the one thing he wanted alive has _died._

He doesn’t dare say it aloud, even now - but God be damned. He doesn’t care about Her ineffable plan anymore.

—-

Tadfield airbase has been relatively empty for a while now. It was never the busiest place - and it has been even less so, after the apocawasn’t.

Adam and his friends venture there sometimes, to make believe as children often do - but with restraint. After all, Adam cant be quite sure what he might create.

When Crowley died, Adam felt it. He hadn’t cried for the fallen angel, but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t sad at all. He had been a good person at heart, and Adams Grandmother above had seemed to like him.

He had _not_ anticipated what had come soon after that death.

Tadfield Airbase has never been very full, not even when it was first created.

But now, it was filled.

—-

“So.”

The Archangels representative - Gabriel, speaks loudly at the front of only a fraction of their amassed army, speaking for all of heaven.

“So.”

Beelzebub, flies swirling in massive clouds above them, speaks for all of hell.

Gabriel smiles grimly.

“Let us begin.”

—-

Well, it takes an awful lot for God to be worried.

She supposed that She is very lucky that know what she knows - being omnipotent does have its perks. The fighting won’t set Her back _too_ much, but it is still an unneeded inconvenience.

Now, if the armies of heaven and hell respectively could wait only a little bit longer, She would thank them endlessly.

But of course - even if they didn’t have the free will of humans, She had never created them to do whatever She wanted whenever She wanted if She didn’t directly instruct them too.

Even though this was true, it was still quite annoying when they’d begun their fight, Demons still tunneling up and Angels still flying down as the clash began.

Humans all around the world hear the battles beginning - the clanging of gongs, the screams and roars, the ear piercing scratches of weapons against weapons, the firing of guns and crossbows and bows.

Adam heard it all especially - he was listening not far away. His aura surrounded them all, and if he had been aligned with either side, it might’ve fueled them. Instead, it didn’t do anything at all - so he just went back into the backyard and waited for his friends to drag him off - fearless, and unbothered, as children often are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I just wanna say, even if I don’t respond to your comment, I see it, and I love it.
> 
> All of you are so wonderfully lovely, and seeing all the support I’ve gotten makes me so so so ridiculously happy. You could definitely say I’m the opposite of Aziraphale right now! 
> 
> But really, thank you, to all of you. Every single one of you, who has dropped a comment or given me a kudo. You’re all amazing.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yknow, I rewrote this chapter a few times.
> 
> First time I wrote it, it was actually going to be the last chapter. I scrapped it, I didn’t like it.
> 
> Second time, I was half asleep, and forgot how to spell many words. I had to look up some names of the Seraphim and ended up typing in “Sephelim,” multiple times - and obviously, to my frustration, nothing came up.
> 
> So that was deleted as well - that typo riddled draft. 
> 
> I hope that this is a satisfying chapter, now that I’ve been able to write it properly!

Crowley's body lies stagnant to the waters of time,  gently  pressed into the rarely-used bed in Aziraphale’s bookshop, preserved by Aziraphale’s magic.

He looks out of place, bleeding out onto Aziraphale’s bed, but his face looks like it matches it all  perfectly  .  In unconsciousness, Crowley’s usually bored scowl reduces to an almost innocent look - and now, at his death, he looks the same, even while covered in burns and blood.

Of course, he’ll hold a funeral for him  eventually  .  He’ll have to wait till the second apocalypse ends - then he can look for anyone who survived that may have had a connection to Crowley.

He would help stop the apocalypse again this time - but what’s the point? It’s already begun, he can feel the influx of destroyed souls pouring into the void right at this very moment. 

So, he  just  sits next to Crowley, still for the moment, his hand lingering  gently  atop Crowley’s fingers before he draws away. He pulls his arms to his face and weeps. 

—-

There have been so many casualties.

Azrael doesn’t spare a single moment to help with the fighting - he never was much of a fighter anyways. He only came around to pick up the remains.

He reminds himself of a vulture at times - but he quite likes the birds, so it doesn’t offend him much when others see him as such. They help the earth, they pick up the clutter,  just  as the Angel Of death  is employed  to. 

Raphael tends to the wounded in heaven - the discorporated, or the  barely  alive, or the ones so close to death that they  surely  won’t survive. It breaks his heart to see, but he, like death, has responsibilities outside of fighting. 

He thanks God for that - he doesn’t want to  be forced  to watch his fellow angels die. Refusing the fight is one of his natural talents - he has never killed a single soul.

All of  the angels under God have descended to the plains of Tadfield, - all but the seraphim.  Metatron, Jehoel, and Seraphil, the only Angelic’s remaining of their kind, all stay at God’s side - or somewhere nearby.

No one  really  knows.

—-

“So,” says God, drinking from a quite warm glass of tea, her veined and old hands not shaking in the slightest, despite the ages figure she has taken on today. “Do you think it’ll happen before there are many casualties?”

 “Well,” rumbles Lucifer, pulling black locks of hair from his face and meeting the eyes of his mother without a trace of anger. “There’s already been many casualties. I don’t think this is a fair bet.”

This is an ongoing tradition of the two.

They both control huge chess sets in the game of life that humans call home - and of course, God was the original of the two. She is the teacher, and Lucifer is her very volatile student - prone to screaming at her whenever he pleases.

Somewhere along the line, Lucifer had realized he didn’t  really  want to fight God for all eternity, it got rather boring after a while. He still didn’t want to return to heaven - no, he had other things in mind. 

Hell needed some remodeling - it was, quite  frankly  , the most ineffective use of space in the entire universe.

But She had  pleasantly  told him to wait - for another piece in her game must  be moved. Then, he would  be allowed  to do as he liked with hell.

He’d  merely  nodded  agreeably  that day, thousands of years ago, and sipped his coffee.

 —-

Aziraphale feels so much.

Quite a bit more than most angels in fact - and he supposes that must be the devilish humanity within him.

Now that Crowley is dead - he feels even more.

It’s almost as if the calm that Crowley sometimes gave off - while rarely constant - was something that had  miraculously  helped Aziraphale’s mood as well.

 Well, that’s obvious. It’s not quite “almost as if,” it’s more: “completely known fact. Aziraphale is  just  oblivious.”

Now that Crowley is dead, there’s also a mix of feelings that had surrounded London - surrounded Crowley - that are gone.

Feelings of… love,  strangely  enough. He’d always thought it was a base feeling for London, but it seems he had  severely  misjudged. That love had come from Crowley. 

There’s also feelings of a kind of childish, mischievous fun. It’s almost the feeling of laughter itself.

Yes, there’s also a baseline of evil following him. Not quite evil,  just  …. demonic energy. It isn’t bad, of course. Well, it’s  technically  bad, but it is Crowley’s - so it’s hard to actually classify it as bad. It’s more like a fiery aura, like cinnamon or spicy sushi. It’s got bite, but it isn’t bad.

Some other demon nearby must have a similar energy,  strangely  enough. He can feel it  slightly  \- it’s giant, but growing stronger.  Maybe  the fighting has already migrated to central London.

It’s  probably  another that’s gone native - they don’t seem too devilish.

It’s so familiar…  nearly  enough to bring even more tears to his eyes.

Oh, Nevermind. He won’t lie to himself - he’s already crying.

—-

There’s a light cleaving the battlefield in half - burning away Demons, blinding Angels. Its origin is unknown - but Gabriel, wincing  slightly , looks onwards. 

It must  be stopped.

—-

_“No…”_

Aziraphale whispers the one-syllable word to himself, still feeling the aura.

It’s not  just  close to Crowley’s aura - it is his aura.

 It blazes  frighteningly  large, larger than Adam’s, spreading its fervent tendrils all across the world and blanketing over Aziraphale  warmly . 

He’s only looked away from Crowley for a single second - to glance out the window - yet when he looks back, he’s gone. 

—-

Gabriel fights against his urge to  fly  away from the grace - it’s almost as strong as God’s pure aura herself, and it burns against his eyes. 

He continues upwards towards the  vaguely  human shaped thing, until he is  just  below it.

_“_ _Hey! We’re trying to fight a war here!”_ He shouts, waving his sword at it  angrily.

It gives him no response.

  _“_ _Hello?! Hello!”_ He flies up higher until he faces the ball of light  directly  , staring at its back. “You’ve got to stop, this is  pitifully  obnoxious,” he snarls, now completely covering his eyes.

 He can’t see, but the figure turns to him, drawing out a single glowing arm, pointing  directly  at his chest.  He feels the warmth drawing from it - so  similar to  God’s light, the feeling of heaven - that Gabriel feels his anger wash away, little by little.

**Fall.**

Suddenly  , he realizes that God herself  truly  emanates from the figure, and Gabriel’s eyes snap open as the warmth starts to turn painful, his anger flooding back in the form of fear. “W - what?”

**Archangel Gabriel, you must fall.**  

—-

Aziraphale is leaping from his window a moment after wrenching it open, hoping beyond hope - hoping beyond reason. 

His wings unfurl and he begins his flight upwards, catching himself on a whistle of wind as the rain batters against him. 

He flies above the cloudline, ignoring the screaming humans, terrified at the brilliant lights and noise emerging from Tadfield. 

Everything seems to fall silent as he breaks that shield of clouds. Everything except a faint ringing in his ears, like a beckoning call, as he raced towards the aura. 

—- 

“You - you -“ his mouth gapes open and closed like a fish, his throat  suddenly  dry and barren as a desert. _“_ _God?”_

 The figure shakes their head.

**No. She speaks through me.**

“Metatron? Seraphiel?” He guess, terrified. He can’t fall, he’s the Archangel fucking Gabriel! “Jehoel?”

**Not even close, Gabriel. You know me, this shouldn’t be so hard.**  

—- 

Aziraphale dives through the cold, soaked in rain and shivering, hugging his still-bloody arms and  desperately  flying towards the glowing mass that the apocalypse itself has stopped to stare at.

It feels gentle, even as Demons stop and hiss with fury at it, their flesh melting. Even some of the angels look away in pain.

He only flies closer, unaffected.

Mouth opening, he screams a single word.

  _“Crowley!”_

—-

The bellow of an angel reaches Gabriel’s ears and he blanches, gripping his sword even tighter, entire body vibrating with anxiety and fear.

The angel nods.

**Crowley.**

—-

Well, Crowley hadn't felt like this for a very long time.

He remembered echoes of his time before the fall - he wasn’t exactly a ball of blazing love, but he was  certainly  powerful . He had trained under the Seraphim - he had created nebulas, he had helped to shape the universe in its glory.

After the fall, it had all  been erased, other than his name - which he didn’t much like either way.

He was sure he’d never been this filled with power, as he glares at Gabriel plummeting through his light and falling -  literally  and  figuratively. 

He’s not an Archangel anymore - he’s not even a lowly angel.  He’s sent diving through fire and ash, falling to the status of demon, his screams of terror and pain echoing for a moment before he disappears. 

Crowley would never wish the pain of falling on anyone who didn’t deserve it - but Gabriel couldn’t be an angel anymore. God Herself had issued the order.

His grace glows brighter  uncontrollably, and the screams of demons below him ring  shrilly  against his ears. Something is trying to reach him, but he feels detached, indifferent. 

“Crowley!” It shouts, in an all too familiar voice, and he can feel its hands parting his Grace like Moses with the Red Sea. It shouts his name again - and the voice becomes  achingly  familiar.

Time stops as he realizes.

Aziraphale.

The glory fades into a ball in his heart, zapping away immediately as he remembers - remember everything.

 —-

All of  the golden fades, so sudden, but Aziraphale can’t mourn the loss of warmth.  He finds that he can’t feel anything, everything going  terrifyingly  numb - so he resugns he resigns himself to stare.

Crowley flies before him, in his familiar black blazer, his t-shirt low against his neckline, his tie hanging untied against his chest  . His feet dangle in the air, black shoes matching his jeans and as normal as anything. There’s not a single dot of blood - no cuts, no burns, no scars.  He seems completely unscathed, and exactly the same as he was the day they met, even the long hair has returns, his curls blowing behind him. He looks  remarkably  unchanged. 

Except he is.

It’s his wings - they’re massive, glowing ethereal and bright.  There are three huge pairs extending from his back, flashing outwards in unison, blowing wind across the field the fight had paused in. A halo of blazing white floats behind his ruby locks, and his mouth falls open, golden eyes with those familiar snake-eyed pupils widening.  

It’s not everyday one gets to see one of the Seraphim. They rarely leave the heavens - everyone knows that.

But to see a former dead demon transform into one of the most holy beings is a once in a lifetime view. 

He feels like he should be kneeling,  just  as the angels on the battlefield have, but before he can, something slams into him.

Crowley has yanked him into a hug, eyes alight with glee, wings curling around Aziraphale  joyously  , their silvery oil-spill sheen shining light teardrops in the sunset. They aren’t the traditional angelic Seraphim wings - they're something akin to a mixture of both Heaven and Hell.

They’re _enchanting_.

The demons below them kneel as well, shellshocked expressions on their faces, mouths gaping. Only Beelzebub stays standing - the only demonic Seraph aboveground.

Aziraphale pays it no mind.

 He wraps his arms  tightly  around Crowley, maneuvering between his wings and holding him close, his own two wings of angelic white brushing the tips of Crowley’s six.

“I - I thought you - I thought you were dead,” sobs Aziraphale, tucking his head into the crook of Crowley’s neck as the brand new Seraph strokes his hair and laughs almost  hysterically. He sniffs, as if on the verge of tears, patting Aziraphale’s back without a trace of awkwardness.

“It takes a lot more than hellfire to get rid of me, Angel,” he whispers, fingers digging into Aziraphale’s jacket as their embrace draws onwards.

Aziraphale sobs out a laugh. “Don’t I know it, dear.” 

”God, don’t I know it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn’t the final conclusion.
> 
> Nope, not at all, I’ve still got a few things coming.
> 
> That being said - I really hope that this is a satisfying part of the arch of this storyline. I’ve been waiting to show everyone this for a while - and I really hope that everyone enjoys it!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Here it is.
> 
> The almost last chapter to the story.
> 
> I hope it’s able to explain some things to everyone, cause I know the last chapter wasn’t exactly very clear on what was going on the entire time.
> 
> Enjoy!

The battlefield clears out fast.

Demons crawl downwards, nursing their wounds and crushing each other under their feet - or in some cases, claws. They scramble through the earth and back into Hell in a flurry of terrified limbs. 

Angels fly off into the distance, or miracle themselves back to heaven with an influx of magic, some bleeding gold, dripping down and mingling with the blackened demonic blood. 

Eventually, everyone but the Archangels, Crowley, and Aziraphale have left.

They’re still hugging - a side hug as they watch the sunset, sitting on the top of the airbase’s familiar bunker, wings folded back out of view, arm in arm. Legs dangling off the side, they stare into the sky, their worries dissolving - to be discussed another time.

The Archangels walk to them, and the scene becomes strangely familiar as Azrael steps forward, leading the group.

“Well bloody hell, Death, I didn’t know this is what She meant with all… that,” says Crowley, raising an eyebrow and flapping his empty arm to express exactly what “that” was. 

He pulls his sunglasses down, staring down at Death with an expectant look. Even now, with his power neatly tucked inside him, his aura is as mighty as Adams.

“WELL. WELCOME BACK.” There’s a pause, as if no one really knows what to say. “DO WE STILL CALL YOU CROWLEY, OR WILL YOU GO BY YOUR OLD NAME?”

That kick starts the conversation, as Crowley’s mouth opens wide into an indignant grimace. 

“Heaven no! I’m going by Crowley still - I’m not the Cherub I was before the Fall. I might’ve forgotten - like…” he thinks back. “Everything - but that doesn’t mean that now that I remember I want it  _ back,”  _ he replies. 

“FAIR POINT. YOU WERE A CHERUB?”

“You don’t remember? I studied with the Seraphim sometimes - I used to pull pranks with you against Gabriel all the time!” He laughs. “Azrael, Cmon!”

“.... YES, I REMEMBER.” He sighs, the rest of the Archangels gaping at him in confusion. “I DON'T SUPPOSE YOU’RE COMING BACK TO HEAVEN, ARE YOU?” 

Crowley bursts out laughing, drawing a smile from Aziraphale. “Well, I think you already know the answer to that one! I’m part demon too - if you didn’t notice.”

He’s not lying. His aura may be heavenly, yet there’s also a strong mix of devilish magic roiling within it, like a cauldron of two volatile subjects mixed to perfection. “I’d rather stay down here - just call if you need me, I guess.”

Azrael nods. 

“Hey - we’re missing Gabriel now. That means there’s an opening for another Archangel,” mutters Ariel, turning to Chamuel. “You reckon we should find a replacement?”

Chamuel smiles down at her, gentle as always. “My dear, I have a perfect idea.” 

He walks forward, hands clasped together behind his back as he looks up to Crowley and Aziraphale with a knowing gaze that only the angel of relationships can make. “Aziraphale? Would you like to replace Gabriel as an Archangel?”

The rest of the Archangels swivel to stare at him, but they don’t object. They don’t even look surprised - a stark contrast against Aziraphale’s comically confused face. He feels like a fool in one of Shakespeare’s comics - but the Archangels aren’t known for their lies. 

“M - me?” He gasps out when Crowley nudges him gently. “Are you - are you serious?”

Jophiel shrugs. “You’d be damn good at it. God likes you. I had tea with Metatron last week - he said She’d been glad to see you’d been able to survive the apocalypse.” The shrug he gives seems very inappropriate with the conversation they’re having. “So, what do you say?”

What is Aziraphale supposed to say to  _ that? _

It’s a huge offer, the kind of offer that Aziraphale has dreamt of for years - but has remained constantly impossible. He knew in his heart since his birth that he’d be a principality till he was killed. There were no “promotions,” in heaven. It was simply unheard of.

Or, apparently, it was heard of - in this case. 

“Well?” Michael tilts her head up to look at him. 

“You’re a pain in the ass, but you’d be good at it,” mutters Uriel. 

Both of their responses are surprises to Aziraphale - he’s always assumed they despised him. If he’s truthful, he still at least  _ slightly  _ hates them. It’s hard to forgive any of the Archangels for what had just happened, right before the second apocowasn’t, but does Aziraphale want to forfeit this opportunity?

He turns to Crowley, meeting the Seraph’s eyes, staring at the smile lines around them. The locks of red crowning his head bob up and down as he nods - and Aziraphale makes his decision.

“No.” 

Crowley whips his head back around, words so loud they make Aziraphale wince. “Angel,  _ What?!” _

“Oh, come on Crowley, I’m too much of a bastard for this,” he grumbles, looking back at Chamuel. “So thank you so very much, but I will be declining.”

He loves being an angel, and he wouldn’t trade it for the world. But - being an archangel means staying in heaven - away from Crowley, and it means being forced to stick around stuffy assholes and people like Gabriel. He doesn’t want that, he wants freedom.

He wants to love, and live, and laugh, to be frank. 

Plus - as he watches the sunset bowing down on a very much undestroyed world, he finds that he’d rather watch it from right where he is, in Crowley’s arms.

Chamuel shrugs. “Well, ok then. But we still need someone to fill that position, because Gabriel’s angelic powers are just kind of…” he raises his arms and waves them a little, like he’s swatting flies. “Buzzing around. They’ll be a pain to take care of.” He taps his chin for a moment, then turns back to Aziraphale, grinning, hands on his hips. “Well, I’ve got a new idea. D'you want them, Aziraphale?” 

That surprises Aziraphale again, and he grows even more astounded. “Really, Chamuel?” asks Uriel, sighing, emotionless as always. “Is that the be-“

Jophiel scoffs. “Uriel, shut it. We all know you only don’t like him because he interfered with the apocalypse.”

For the first time since he’s met her, Uriel is completely silent, golden lips pursed in awkwardness.

Finally. 

“So what do you say, Aziraphale?” Ariel asks, lilting voice rising over Michael’s grumbling.

“IT’S A RATHER GOOD DEAL, YOU’D PROBABLY BE BETTER OFF TAKING IT,” Death points out as he raises an arm to shrug, gesturing at Aziraphale, the other still occupied with his scythe.

Aziraphale shrugs, caving under he combined gazes of all of them and Crowley combined. “Well, then I guess I will.” 

—-

When they’re finally alone - Gabriel’s angelic powers transferred to Aziraphale - Crowley pokes him in the side, gently. 

“What’re you thinking, Angel?” He inquires, voice low and soft, as if he’s only just waking up. The honey in his eyes swirl, mingling with the orange the skies blow against them. 

He could have said a million different things. He could talk about how scared he’d been earlier in the day - when Crowley had been a corpse, soaked in black blood and face so pale it matched the white blankets of his bed. 

He could talk about how the sunset is making him want to cry, because he’s still scared that this will all go up in flames, and it’s all too nice to be true. 

But what he says instead - what his brain, for some ridiculous reason - thought was a smart decision, was: “you.” 

“Me?” Repeats Crowley, an eyebrow raised in confusion. “What about me, specifically?”

—-

Crowley’s heart beats hard as, well, heaven, or hell - or just anything that beats hard, he supposes. The blush against Aziraphale’s cheeks would’ve made his knees give out if he’d been standing - and he’s bloody thankful he’s been sitting and watching the sunset for a little under an hour now. 

“Well, if you don’t mind answering,” he says hastily, seeing Aziraphale’s nervous expression. The angel stammers out some sort of garbled response - the whole thing completely unintelligible, then sighs.

Pink crests the trees and Aziraphale’s cheeks at the same moment as the sun continues it’s slow descent, the color reflecting off of the angel’s crystal blue eyes. “I - I… uh…”

He leans closer, worried. “Angel?” 

“I think I’m in love with you, Crowley.”

At that moment, a trillion firecrackers go off in Crowley’s chest at once.

He’d loved Aziraphale since nearly the day they’d met - he was so silly, and something within him seemed to be truly close to Crowley. 

But Aziraphale was an  _ angel,  _ and Crowley was a demon, even if he wasn’t fully a demon. 

It was impossible. Aziraphale was perfect, he couldn’t love him - it wasn’t possible.

“Erm. What?” Says Crowley, mouth feeling as if he’s inhaled a mouth of sand. “Y - you… you what?”

“I said I love you!” Aziraphale says abruptly, turning to Crowley, staring into his eyes - his demonic snake eyes that showed just how incompatible they were. 

—-

“Don’t lie to me, Aziraphale,” Crowley snaps, withdrawing his arm - and with it, his gentle warmth. “You - pleassse. I can’t take that. Don’t you dare lie to me. Not about thisss.”

His voice is heavy, choked. It reverts back to a snake’s hiss with some syllables, worrying Aziraphale even more. 

The way he speaks makes Aziraphale want to tug him into a hug - he wishes he could simply pat his back and make all of his hurt fly away.

How could Crowley think he was lying? He’d loved Crowley for thousands of years - he thought it had become obvious. He wasn’t much good at hiding his love - he preferred to wear his heart on his sleeve.

“Crowley,” He says, soft, daring a look into the demons eyes - the gorgeous gold shining with unshed tears that match the drops in Aziraphale’s own. “My dear, I’m not lying to you. I  _ couldn’t.” _

Crowley cheeks are soft, and burning with blush, as Aziraphale sets his hands gently against them. The former demon almost leans into the touch, layering his own hands over Aziraphale's

The moment is ice-fragile, with Crowley staring deep into Aziraphale’s eyes, closer than they’ve ever been in this intimate of a situation. Aziraphale doesn’t dare move - he’s afraid if he does, this whole day will run away from him and he’ll be back at the house, mourning the loss of Crowley. 

“W - well,” Crowley says, stumbling over his words, hands over Aziraphale’s still - shaking. “Aziraphale, in that case, I’ve been in love with you for a damned long time.”

It all explodes.

Their lips collide in a kiss right as the sun finishes its decline - the press of their lips soft and gentle as tender gazes they’ve shared so many nights. 

So, on top of the Tadfield air base bunker, with the stars Crowley helped create sparkling in the reflection of Aziraphale’s spectacles, the two of them finally have each other, to hold, and to love. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this has been a journey! I haven’t written like this in a while - and I’ve never really written romance like this, so I hope that everyone enjoyed reading this all as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> I’m pretty sure I’ve only got one more chapter to go, just an epilogue sort of thing. Then, I’ll be writing separate stories in this “timeline” on the series I’ve got this one in now.


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. We’re finally here. The epilogue. 
> 
> I really hope this is a satisfying ending for everyone!

“Well, that certainly went well,” says God Herself, sitting in a posh white garden chair under a gazebo, somewhere in Australia. It looks like a wedding venue, maybe it is. She didn’t pick the spot, it was Lucifer’s job this time. The King Of Hell sits across from Her now, pushing one of his pawns across a marble chess board.

“So, does this mean I can begin reform?” He brushes his curls out from his face and looks back up at her, lips pursed and golden eyes narrowed to stare at her blankly white ones, nodding at her to play her turn.

She sighs, and one of her bishops drags forward of its own accord. “I suppose. I’ve got some work to do myself, haven’t I?” The bishop claims Lucifer’s last Knight. “Heaven is rather boring at the moment, I'd like to give the souls what they deserve.”

“And honestly - most of the souls in hell aren’t even  _ that bad,”  _ muses Lucifer, pulling his gaze away and claiming Her bishop with one of his own. “I want to make this into a sort of improvement program. Torture gets infinitely dull - and I know that many demons are bored with it too.” The pawn he had claimed from her rolls off the table and he leans over to scoop it up. “Did you know that the demons are trying to unfall themselves?” He asks from the floor, before he sits back up.

“I know,” She responds simply, moving her queen a single spot. “Checkmate.”

“What! Not fair!” Lucifer scoffs and searches the board angrily. He throws his hands up in defeat. “You cheated, come on.”

She might’ve. Just a little.

“No, no I didn’t.” She replies, grinning at him in a very ungodly way. The pieces rearrange themselves and she points to Lucifer, who now holds the white pieces. “Your play. Maybe you’ll win this time.”

—-

Deep within the bowels of hell, Hastur is chained to a wall. Obviously - seeing as Beelzebub isn’t a complete idiot - his lie was found. So now he awaits trial in the dungeon, moldy water dripping down onto his head randomly.

His feet brush against the floor and he pants with exertion, making an effort to keep himself from just dangling there. Through the walls of his cell he hears screaming - it must be someone’s first torture session.

It was, in fact, Gabriel’s first assignment. He was being forced to torture one of the cells, and doing a rather pitiful job with it. He kept flinching at each hit of the whip, and mumbling apologies when he supervisor looked away. 

He wasn’t like these other demons - he was better than them, a former Archangel!

Those thoughts are shattered the moment his supervisor enters again, laughing at him as if he could read his thoughts. “Remember, Gabe,” He says, using Gabriel’s new name. “You’re equal to all of us. Stop being a baby and finish your session.” 

—-

Back on earth, Crowley is driving his car, his finger drumming against the steering wheel to the tune of Bach’s “Who wants to live forever.”

Aziraphale sits beside him, gazing out the side window and saying “look Dear, more horses!” Whenever they pass a farm. The glass panes separating them from the world have been rolled back, and a cool evening breeze gusts through the windows gently. 

Now, Aziraphale is silent, eyes half shut as he relaxes against his seat on the bumpy road.

Crowley mutters the lyrics, starting the mournful tune with “there’s no time for us,” pulling his sunglasses off and yawning mid verse. He finishes the last of the stanza with a quiet: “Yet slips away from us?”

“You know, I met him,” says Aziraphale, opening his eyes back up to glance over at his love. “Freddie.”

“Oh?” 

“Yes. He was a kind young man - it was a shame he died so young.”

“It was.” Crowley sighs. “So many people died ‘cause of that cursed disease.”

Aziraphale nods, chiming in quickly to the song just Freddie’s lonely voice crawls on. “Who wants to live forever?” He sighs out, voice a whisper. 

“You’ve been listening, haven’t you, Angel.” Crowley grins. “I’m proud.”

The car hits a particularly nasty bump on the silent country road, and Aziraphale pauses before he speaks. “Well, yes… it’s hard not to enjoy him when we listen to him so much.”

“I like this song,” admits Crowley quietly. His hair blows behind him and gathers itself on his seat for the moment, the wind pulling at the long locks of red. “But it doesn’t really match us.”

“Oh? What’s your take on it, then?”

“ _ I _ certainly love being so immortal,” he replies matter of factly, emphasizing the love as if it is the most important part. “I get to spend that time with you, so of course I want to live forever.” He shrugs. 

Aziraphale blushes scarlet and stammers out a quick garbled response, then presses a kiss to Crowley’s cheek, mostly giving up on words. “I could express the same.”

They drive on in silence as the song finishes out, the crooning music steering itself into the quiet as Crowley steers towards the sunset. 

As per tradition, when the notes drain out and Bohemiam Rhapsody takes its stage, they shout the lyrics together, filled with love. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s not even that late at night, as it normally is when I post these chapters. It’s nice to do it when it’s quiet and I’ve got some personal time - it gives me some more time to figure out the kinks with the story.
> 
> But, this fic in this storyline is finally finished. No more editing, or worrying, or anything. I’m satisfied with what I’ve written, now, as this epilogue. 
> 
> I enjoyed writing this so, so much. It was a huge joy, and I’m very happy that people found happiness within my words! 
> 
> This series isn’t over - even if I don’t add a full sequel, I will be writing new things for it. Even now - I’m adding onwards, I’ve actually been working on a new fic for this for a few days now.
> 
> I want to thank all of you - again, for being so wonderfully supportive as I wrote this. Every single one of you who left me kudos and comments - from the people who screamed in all caps, to the people who wrote paragraphs of analyzation and love, to the people who simply said “great job!”
> 
> All of you encouraged me so so much, and so thank you.


	11. Sequel announcement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’ve finally written a sequel!

Hey guys! 

So, because so many people seemed to enjoy this fic, I have written a sequel! Well, technically I already wrote something like a sequel, but I don’t count it because it isn’t plot driven or anything. 

Its under the “Ineffable Lovers” series that this fic is in, and it is called “Seven Seas Of Rhye,” because I had to take inspiration from Queen music again. 

Here’s a link to go straight to it:

[Seven Seas Of Rhye](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19436215/chapters/46257085)

I hope that anyone who reads it finds it to be just as enjoyable as this fic was!

**Author's Note:**

> So, how did you like it? Leave me a comment, drop me a kudo, whatever, I just hope you enjoyed!


End file.
